


pursuit of happiness

by oct1en3one



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Gen, OT6, profanity bomb, visceral friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2616017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oct1en3one/pseuds/oct1en3one
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laughing, Ray sticks his hand out the window and flips off the city.  The sunshine air fills the car and it smells like Los Santos, like salt and tar and exhaust, like gasoline and money.  The Fake AH Crew doesn’t do anything by halves.  (What we’re dealing with here is a total lack of respect for the law.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	pursuit of happiness

**Author's Note:**

> This is my new name. I broke several personal rules to write this, not just bent, but broke, clean in half, then broke the smaller pieces again and again, I am the Large Hadron Collider of my rules, just smashed even the atoms to find anti-matter personal rules; hence, the new name. Anyway, here's ~~Wonderwall~~ this. Enjoy!

The city looks clean from the air. Right now, it’s all shining glass and blinding steel and the possibilities for anything are _endless_. He’s veering left, caught in a crosswind, so he tugs, balancing the parachute. It’s not that far of a fall, he could’ve opened the ‘chute later, but he’s not exactly that fond of heights, making his job a little less fun. What the fuck ever, he’s got this moment, the receding _whupp-whupp-whupp_ of the cargobob above him and the rush of wind and the hard pull of gravity, he watches the roof build up to meet him. 

He lands harder than he means to, sneakers sliding in gravel and he has to snap the parachute loose fast before he’s pulled over the edge of the building. He catches himself on the bricks, hands scraped, and breathes. 

“Why the fuck was this necessary,” Ray says, “I mean, c’mon, I think I could’ve climbed here. There should be a ladder, seriously.” He tugs the sniper scope out of his hoodie pocket to get a better look. “Yup, there _is_ a ladder, I repeat, there _is_ a ladder. Thanks for fucking nothing, guys.”

“Aw, c’mon, Ray,” Jack croons as the chopper glides away, “this is _much_ more fun.”

“And it looks cool, don’t you want it to look cool, it looks _cool_ ,” Gavin replies, a little out of breath over the comm. “We need to make an entrance.”

Ray shakes his head as he frees the sniper rifle from his bag. “Uh, _no_ , no, we don’t. That was pretty conspicuous. And suspicious. Conspicuously suspicious.”

“Yeah, but you looked good, man,” Michael chimes in, “fucking _nice_.” There’s a series of small thuds in Ray’s ear, he pictures Michael five blocks away casually setting sticky bombs on the designated car, like a little kid placing pretty stickers. 

He shakes his head again, snipers aren’t supposed to be _seen_ , but he follows orders (sometimes) and someone, now he forgets who, how convenient, _someone_ in the meeting had said, ‘Oh, hey, Ray’s gotta get up on that rooftop, quickest way’s to parachute in.’ It might’ve been Gavin. 

“Big surprise there,” Ray mutters under his breath and he spots Ryan in the alleyway across the street, a dark movement in the slanting shadow of a fire escape. The black mask is firmly in place and Ray thinks he can see the blue-black-silver of the motorcycle jacket and he honestly doesn’t know how Ryan hasn’t died of heatstroke. “Hey, Ryan, stay in the shadows, it’s important to stay cool and hydrated in this heat, you got any water on you?”

He can _hear_ Ryan rolling his eyes, so he puts the reticle of his scope on the skeletal grin of the mask. 

“I won’t have time to hydrate, Ray, I’ve got massive chaos to cause.”

“You can do both. How can you cause chaos if you’re sad and dehydrated?”

“Why would I be sad?”

“’Cause you’re dehydrated!” _Obviously_ , Ray thinks, circling the barrel around Ryan’s head and Ryan waves as if he knows. Fucker knows everything.

“Alright, you maniacs, I think we’re ready to do this,” Geoff interrupts with a huff, “are we ready to do this. Everybody, check in.”

Jack’s reply comes between the soft whir of rotors, “Eyes on the street, ready to pick up the car bomb, or wait, is it a bomb car, or—“

“It’s a bloody bomb that’s a car,” Gavin says, absolutely blissful even with the same sound of rotors, “got my gun, got my boi—“

“Well, I’m on the ground, but I’m ready,” Michael says, “heading to the intersection with a fuckload of grenades, uh, yes, _please and thank you_ —“

“And as long as Jack stays still, I can shoot anything that moves,” Gavin continues anyway and Ray sighs and Jack says, “Gavin, I can’t stay still, _we’re in a fucking cargobob_ —“

“Oh, you know what I mean, you prick—“

“Ray and I are ready,” Ryan says, pure amusement in his voice, “waiting on you, Geoff, just say go and _maybe_ they’ll shut up,” and there are days when Ray’s glad Ryan’s around, this is one of those days, possibly.

“Oh my _God_ , just go, everyone go, why do I even expect these things to work,” Geoff says, his car sliding up to the curb and Ray tightens his grip on the rifle. 

They’re robbing a bank, which, c’mon, cliché, but Ray likes the bank jobs, they’re fun and messy and they dirty up the city a bit, not unlike that time two heists ago when they all parachuted out and the chopper plunged to the street below and exploded everywhere as they converged on an armored truck. Not the best heist ever, but it was still fun and the footage on the news had been spectacular, “fucking thing of beauty right there,” Michael said, pointing his beer bottle at the TV.

Letting out a breath, Ray shoots at the feet of the civilians standing in front of the bank doors and they don’t react until the concrete starts chipping, debris flying. He sees a man take a chip to the leg, then a bank guard runs out and he comments, “Smart move, asshole,” and pulls the trigger. Immediately, Ryan stalks out of the shadows, SMG in his hands, firing steady and even with each step he takes, the metallic punch of bullets as he shoots at the passing cars. 

“Ryan, guard, _guard_ ,” Ray warns as a second guard bursts from the bank and honestly, why do that, why do they think that’s a good idea, he pulls the trigger, guard down, and Ryan says, “Thanks, I got distracted by the fire hydrant.”

“Oh, do it, man, do it.”

A _thud_ down on the street and Ray feels the concussion, then water fountains up in the air, onto the asphalt, everything glittering black and shining. 

“A rainbow, I made a rainbow!” Ryan shouts above the raze of gunfire and sure enough, Ray sees it, the arching colors floating in the air, bright as a prism, “Ryan the rainbow guy,” he says, grinning, as he tracks Michael running towards the bank. Ryan’s laughter loud and happy over the comm, Ray can barely understand him as he yells, “They’re always after me lucky charms!” in a questionable accent and that’s when Geoff darts into the bank. His hard shouting for the money causes the chaos to go up, adrenaline flooding Ray’s system and he takes a breath as the sirens start. Michael’s sprinting up the bank steps and he tosses a grenade into the middle of the intersection, “Ryan, back up _back up_ ,” and the street explodes. Ray sights at a stoplight as it falls over, disappearing into the smoke.

“Dammit, Michael, now I can’t see the intersection.”

“Well, it had to be done.”

“Did it?” Ryan asks, gun at his shoulder, putting bullets into headlights.

Two cop cars, three, four, shit, five, Ray’s watching another one speed from the horizon towards them, he puts a bullet through an approaching windshield, the car veers off to crash into a pillar and Jack’s saying, “Cops are here, cops are here.”

Geoff’s voice is tight when he speaks. “Okay, okay, almost got the money. Michael, follow me out and blow this place as we leave.”

“Got it.” They make a mad stuttered dash out to the car Geoff left at the curb, Geoff saying, “Thank you, Ryan, for not fucking shooting the car to shit.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Ryan replies, giving them cover and Ray’s taking out tires and engine blocks, satisfied with the sound as he shoots through the car hoods, before switching to picking off cops hunkered behind their cars; he hears the rhythmic chop of bullets and rotor overhead, Gavin saying, “Hook the bomb car, Jack, I think they’re ready,” and Michael chucks grenades back into the bank, “Sweet fucking care package for you, motherfuckers!” Then he’s in the car, slamming the door shut just as the explosions go off and Geoff screeches off in reverse, Ryan standing open in the street and Ray goes cold, _fuck_ , “get the fuck out of the street, Ryan!” Ray’s trying to cover him as Ryan defends the rapidly disappearing car, but the rifle’s slow, the only thing he hates about it. He scrabbles to snatch up his gear, the world so fucking _huge_ now that he’s not looking through the scope; he ignores the dizziness, feels the bag heavy on his back and fuck the fucking ladder, this is all too slow, _finally_ he’s on the street, finds his grenade launcher, “get over here,” he yells and the black skull appears next to him as he aims and shoots.

The grenade lobs up, almost vanishes in the blue sky and the trails of smoke, and a bullet whistles past him, bits of brick flying, then the grenade finds its target, a cop car shoved sideways by an invisible hand and he fires again before Ryan takes the launcher from him.

“Allow me. You’re about to drop all your shit on the street.”

To his annoyance, Ray discovers he is, the bag loose and open. “Well, I had to come save your fucking ass, didn’t I.”

“Who’s fucking asses, don’t do that right now, we’re in the middle of something,” Geoff berates in a rush.

A grenade launches.

It’s messy and amazing and Ray is never not in love with this, the mayhem and the rush, the noise is _incredible_ , it’s a big complex moment, sharp and hard as diamond; he breathes it in, havoc and exhilaration, the screams and smoke and the sight of the chopper flying in low with the car swinging suspended from it, he says, “you always know what to get me, baby.” Gavin and Ryan burst out laughing over the comm, and Geoff’s shouting, holy shit holy shit _holy shit_.

As long as they’re having fun, Ray’s happy.

Then silence and Ray hears Jack but not what he says, only his voice, then the car drops into the intersection, a loud crunch of glass and metal onto the street and on top of two cop cars, Ryan’s grabbed his arm, “we gotta go, Ray,” and Ray hears himself say, “Hold on, wait, _wait_.”

Gavin says, “Bomb’s away!” and Jack huffs, “We already dropped it, idiot,” then the car detonates. The blast is tremendous, knocking Ray against the launcher Ryan’s still holding, and the fireball expands like a dome before collapsing.

“Fucking _beautiful_ is what that was,” Michael says, “holy fucking shit,” and Ray watches a burning tire roll down the street before he says, “Alright, that went well,” then he lets Ryan lead the way to the innocuous Pißwasser truck hidden far back in the alley.

The cab smells of beer, there’s a reason Ray doesn’t drink, this is seriously nasty, he makes a gagging face as Ryan starts the truck and they pull into the empty street two blocks south of the carnage without a care in the world. 

“Hey, can I have my grenade launcher back,” he asks and Ryan’s eyes are bright in the holes of the mask. 

“Nah, thought I’d keep it. Then I’d have _two_.”

“’Cause that’s important.”

“You understand these things.”

Ray hmms and leans against the window, staring out at the city, not so clean now, listening to Geoff and Michael laugh in the car, Jack bitching as Gavin takes potshots at trailing police helicopters. 

The police helicopters, _shit_. He sits up and at the same time, Michael says, “Oh, shit, we got a problem, pull over, Geoff, pull over. Pop the trunk.”

“What.”

Jack sounds like exasperation personified, “The fucking police fucking helicopters! Can’t you see them? Those things behind us I’ve been yelling at Gavin about?”

“Oh, shit!”

Gavin’s squealing over the comm. “Oh my – Oh my _God!_ ”

“What, what is it?” Michael’s frantic, but Gavin simply sounds offended, “They _shot_ at me, Michael. They’re bloody shooting at me!”

Ryan laughs so hard he drives onto the curb, almost up onto the sidewalk and Michael growls, yelling, “ _Of course_ they’re fucking shooting at you, you fucking moron! Just shoot back! I swear to God, Gavin, I swear to _Christ_ —”

“I _am_ shooting, Michael, what’re you on about.”

“Just fucking – seriously, _seriously?!_ ”

Ray’s sad he’s missing out on seeing any of this, but Ryan’s stopped at a gas station, pulled around to the side as if they’re delivering fucking beer, so Ray gets out, all weapons hidden in the cab. Ryan slides from behind the wheel, to Ray’s side by the wall of the store, no one can see the mask from the street.

“Clever,” Ray admits, low, and Ryan says cheerfully, “I try,” and Gavin’s voice comes over all innocent, “What’d I do.”

“What didn’t you do,” Ray replies, because he knows how this works, Gavin their imp, the one with more mischief than his body can hold.

“Jack, lure them closer to me,” Michael says, loud, smothering Geoff’s nonsensical noises, worried and strained, but Gavin’s still insisting, “What’d I do. No one’s died.”

“Yet,” Jack and Ryan point out simultaneously, and Ray squeezes past Ryan to grab the scope out of the bag, hey, he’s got an extra, “here, sharesies,” Ryan shoves his mask up and they peer at the helicopters, a turtle-race overhead in the reticles.

A tight couple of seconds go by and Ryan says, “We _could_ be shooting at them.” Ray considers it, says, “Yeah, we could,” then Ryan smirks and they shrug at each other. 

“Oh well.”

“That was a close one,” Ray agrees, “we almost had to _do_ something.”

“The horror,” Ryan shudders.

“Oh, the humanity.”

Michael’s breathing fast but evenly, and Ray isn’t worried, Michael’s got this, he thinks he knows what Michael’s doing, and he isn’t worried because this is his crew, they might wave guns at each other or not speak for two days after someone (no names that start with G) sets off a smoke grenade in one of the vans, or after someone maybe possibly misplaced the scope of his rifle once and had to shoot half-blind (no names), it doesn’t matter, they’re friends, they’ve shared blood and weapons and ammo and adrenaline, and a few memorable times, showers, and maybe beds because certain people can’t count to six. They’re his fucking family. They always come through. They have to. No one goes down without a fight and they sure do fucking know how to fight like goddamn fiends, armed to the teeth and violent as hell.

The tension is ratcheting though, Ryan’s hand is a fist against the side of the truck, knocking his knuckles against the metal. There’s an odd clicking on the comm, Jack saying, “Gavin, have you hit _anything?_ ”

“It’s hard to hit something when we’re wobbling around like this, innit.”

“Do I need to get my gun,” Ray offers dryly and Gavin squawks loud enough to make him and Ryan wince in unison.

“You’re just bloody sitting there watching?”

“Yeah, makes for high class entertainment. 10 out of 10, would recommend.”

“Aww, thanks, cheers, Ray.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Firing,” Michael says, a mysterious concussive _whoosh_ in Ray’s ears, Ryan ducks his head reflexively and there’s a dark mark in the sky before one of the police helicopters disintegrates into fire, debris hurtling down. “ _Booosh! ___”

The loudness again, then the other helicopter disappears in a fiery ball and Jack’s muttering, “Thank _fuck_ , we are landing this fucking thing _now_. I see the third car, let’s go, Gavin, _Gavin_.” Their chopper descends down behind a skyscraper, Gavin giving them updates, “I am climbing out, Jack is climbing out, we are now on the roof, what is this stuff made of, this is weird stuff, it’s all sticky under my shoes, Michael, you should see this, Michael, oh, look, there’s a ladder, down the ladder, off to the car, bugger off, Jack, I’m driving, shut up, _I’m driving_ , and away we go!” 

Ryan mumbles, “They’re gonna die,” as Geoff slow-claps somewhere at the edges of the city, says, “You and your rocket launcher, Michael. I should pay for your ammo, but I’m not going to.”

“Why not, that’s just dumb.”

“’Cause I said so, buy your own fucking toys.”

“Fine, fine, I _will_ buy my own fucking toys, ungrateful piece of shit, however, this is Ray’s—“

“You’re welcome,” Ray interrupts and Michael finishes, “So you might wanna buy _him_ some ammo.”

“I like Ray, he’s a good guy, maybe I’ll buy him one rocket.” 

“You’re welcome, I mean, thanks.”

“Wait, if that one’s Ray’s, where’s yours, Michael,” Geoff asks, then there’s a screeching on the comm and Jack yells, “I don’t wanna die!” and Gavin makes a noise that probably is supposed to be comforting, but to Ray it sounds like he’s gurgling.

“I forgot it, it’s at my apartment.”

“Naturally,” Ryan chimes in, “that’s where I keep mine.”

“Yeah, where else would you keep it,” Ray says, it’s obvious, where else would he keep it, and Geoff’s spluttering, as if they’re being unreasonable, “I dunno, the safehouse? An armory?”

“Do we even have an armory?”

“No, we probably should, shouldn’t we.”

Gavin’s gurgling again as Jack murmurs, “Watch the road watch the road watch the road,” then Gavin yells, “Look at that, boys, victory! We should get tacos and bevs!” cheery as fuck and Geoff says, “Tacos and bevs! I know, I’ll buy Ray tacos.”

This is his fucking family. Ryan facepalms and drags his mask back down, gives Ray a half-hug. “Hey, you’re worth tacos, Ray.”

“Great.”

With a huge sigh, Ryan climbs back into the truck and Ray follows him and when they drive away, Ryan has to swerve to avoid bent rotors in the street, driving around the burning tail of a helicopter taking up two lanes, “the traffic around here is _terrible_.”

Ray punches him in the shoulder, hard, and it hurts _him_ , oh, that’s right, he scraped his hands because he “had” to fucking parachute in, dammit.

-

It’s not all fun and games. In fact, there’s a good chance, a good 85-90% chance Geoff might murder all these sons of bitches. He could do it. He thinks. 

There’s a smiley face shot into the wall of the safehouse. Really, two careful parallel lines going down and the curve underneath, done in bullet holes. Just connect the dots. 

He stares at the ceiling for a second, then closes his eyes. Maybe if he can’t see it, it’ll go away. There’s clatter from the other room and footsteps and he hates to even ask, but there _is_ a smiley face shot into the wall of the safehouse.

Michael and Gavin are carrying duffels, Ray trailing behind with his DS, somehow the kid doesn’t look where he’s going but he still navigates fine, dropping his own bag (Geoff winces, there better not be smoke bombs in there) before he flops onto a couch, not once taking his eyes off the screen. Gavin upends his bag onto the floor, stuff scattering everywhere as Michael says, “Jesus Christ, Gavin, just make yourself at home,” and Gavin says, “Thanks, boi,” and Michael swings his bag at Gavin’s head before setting it down, “Are you seriously this dense.”

“What.”

“Oh my God, never mind,” Michael says, voice already rising, “move your damn shit,” chucking bullets at Gavin, “there’s shit _everywhere_ ,” and Geoff really hopes there’s nothing flammable within reach, though Michael could simply beat Gavin to death and the bullet hole smiley face grins at Geoff maliciously.

“Okay, who did the thing,” Geoff asks and he is suddenly so tired, it’s not fair.

“What thing,” Gavin says, crawling in front of the sofa after stray bullets and Ray lifts his legs for him as Michael says, “Who do you think,” not looking up from his duffel and there’s a mini-explosion on the DS as Ray says, “What thing,” and Michael repeats, “Seriously, who do you think.”

Los Santos, whiskey him strength.

“Well, sadly, I know _all_ you mangy idiots, so...”

Jack wanders in, does a double-take at the smiley face, and bursts out laughing, “Hey, who did the thing.”

Rubbing at his forehead, Geoff considers his chances again for murder. “Oh my _Godddd_. We aren't going on this heist until someone tells me who did the thing.”

“What’re we, five?” Ryan asks, pushing his mask back with a smirk, and the skull grin covers part of his face, obscures one eye.

“Sometimes I wonder, and holy fuckholes, you're creepy as dicks like that, either put the mask on or take it off, pick one.”

“Dicks are creepy?” Jack asks as he sets down a bag of money and no one’s concerned with the smiley face that’s now giving Geoff the evil eye.

“Where’s the inflection in that sentence,” Ryan responds, eye glowing in his smudged face paint (goddammit, why can’t people listen to Geoff), “ _dicks_ are creepy or dicks _are_ creepy or dicks are _creepy_.”

“Ryan the inflection guy.”

There’s a headache growing, so Geoff squints, “Ryan, take that fucking mask off, you weird fuck.”

“Well, sometimes I forget I have it on.”

“Well, fuck me, that doesn’t make it any better.”

“You wear that mask if you want to, Ryan,” Jack says with a smirk, even the parrots on Jack’s shirt seem to be smirking.

The headache is big behind Geoff’s eyes, but doesn’t give him laser vision, that’d be awesome. “No heist until _someone_ —“

“I thought we weren't heisting until tomorrow!” Ray points out, indignant behind his DS and Gavin pops up from the other side of the couch, holding a pistol, as if he’s about to start shooting. 

“Still, I _can_ leave you here.”

“Geoff, why.”

“'Cause shit like this happens!” He waves at the wall and Michael finally sees it, snickering, “holy shit, god _damn_ ,” and Gavin’s face contorts, grinning maniacally at the smile, but Ray’s gaze goes sharp behind his glasses.

Fuck, Geoff might be in trouble this time and his chances for murder dip dangerously low.

Waving the DS, Ray says, “Shit like this happens because you left me here!” Tinny video game music fills the sudden silence before Ryan starts to laugh under his breath.

For once, Geoff is flabbergasted. Gavin, yes, Michael, yes, Ray, maybe, they share prankster blood between them (Jack blames all the sloppy first aid or their age, and Geoff blames his poor decision-making skills that he hired them in the first place, and Ryan blames Geoff’s bad influence, so he flips Ryan off); Ray does strike out on his own occasionally with the pranks, but if Geoff were betting, he’d have lost money. “You did this?”

“Nice one, Ray,” Michael says appreciatively, “I like it, very artsy,” as Ryan nods, smug and pleased as if he should’ve thought of it himself, “A comment on the price of happiness maybe? Very avant-garde.”

Ray puts his palm over his heart, fluttering his eyelashes. “Thanks, man, thought the room needed a little of my special touch.”

“Special is certainly the word for it,” Geoff grumbles, but Jack looks concerned, even with a stack of money in his hands, “Wait, what, when did we leave you—“

“I was in my room trying to find the straps for my rocket launcher and you all left! To get tacos!”

“And bevs.” Gavin sits down heavily by Ray, throws his legs into Ray’s lap and finally, Ray drops the DS, a little petulant. Michael says, “Oh, dude, you left the straps at my apartment,” and Ray nods, “Sweet, I thought they were under the bed,” but Jack is still making small perplexed sounds. Ryan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, that fucking mask still scary askew, entirely too amused for Geoff’s peace of mind. 

Geoff hangs his head, waiting. 

“Tacos? But we brought you back some,” Jack eventually says, his expression is so hang-dog.

“After I fucking called you!”

Reaching over, Gavin pats Ray on the head (as if Geoff hadn’t watched him race through traffic four days ago on a motorcycle, chucking grenades like a demented flower girl going down the aisle) and Ray’s smiling, his quick anger bleeding out, but he glances at Geoff with a bit of challenge there.

“What’s the matter, Geoff, don’t you like art,” Michael asks, “’cause that’s some _good goddamn art_. Fucking masterpiece! It belongs in a museum! Look at it!” He does a sort of Vanna White wave, then pokes at one of the holes. 

The headache is still there, how did he end up here with these people, oh, right, poor decision-making skills and absolutely dismal impulse control, but there’s no danger, there never was, like he could get rid of any of these chucklefucks.

“Yeah, I like art, especially if I don’t have to pay for it,” he admits and Gavin _crows_ , the sound that comes out of his mouth is nowhere close to words, laughter and triumph and Geoff sees the spark that passes from Gavin to Michael to Ray, a completed circuit, “no, _no_ , that’s a _hard_ fucking no, I don’t condone this,” too late, it’s spread to Ryan (which honestly, Ryan’s a one-man wrecking crew, he doesn’t need encouragement, damn Geoff and his sad life decisions), “I think I’ve got some gas left in my gas can, who’s got matches,” Ryan says, smearing the face paint more as he slips the mask off, he looks hellish and normal somehow, fuck this, “who needs matches, we’ve got _bullets_ ,” Michael says, dimples showing, and _fuck this_.

“No, no no no no no,” Geoff starts and suddenly, there’s money floating in the air, Jack breaking a stack as he yells, “Group hug!”

They converge on Geoff in various ways, all noise, all pure motherfucking trouble, he stands still as they grab and grope at each other, then it turns into wrestling, Gavin somehow climbing onto Geoff’s back and it’s a standing dog pile with Geoff at the center, he seriously needs a drink. Or three. Or seven. (He’s not laughing, he’s not, this shit is fucking ridiculous.)

“Alright, get off my dick, I’ve got a heist to plan,” he finally yells, right as Ryan accidentally takes a knee to his kidney, Gavin shrieking in Geoff’s ear, “Jesus _fuck_ , now I’m deaf, Gavin.” He does nothing to help anyone in any way as Ryan attempts to pry Gavin off his back, Jack shoving wads of money into Ray’s pockets and hands, “oh, this’ll buy a fuckload of tacos,” Ray says, deadpan, “and bevs,” Gavin yells, running out of the room. Geoff looks up to see Michael glaring, hands on his hips, “You said the planning was done! Whaddya mean you gotta plan the heist. What the fuck have you been doing in here all day. Staring at the art?”

He’s done bad things, sure, but Geoff isn’t sure he deserves this. He hears Ryan calling, “Here, Gavin, c’mere, _c’mere_ ,” and Gavin screeches, then he smells smoke. 

He’s changed his mind, he might murder them, he could do it, and the smiley face on the wall agrees with him.

-

Okay, no, really, it’s not all fun and games. The Fake AH Crew didn’t take the city by being timid and cautious. Things go wrong and because it’s them, things will absolutely go fuck-me-sideways wrong, as Michael might put it. 

Sometimes, it’s easy, just like the old days when they were small-time, robbing convenience stores and pawn shops to cover the price of ammo and build a power base. Stealing cars and hauling ass and the first time they could afford proper comms, Ryan remembers listening to Michael scream at Gavin for about an hour because the hard and fast rule of “don’t get in a car with Gavin” hadn’t been established quite yet and Gavin was behind the wheel, Michael alternating between furious, alarmed, and simply laughing his head off. 

That one ended with Ryan crashed crooked into a lamppost, Jack refused to speak to him in the passenger seat as he laughed and laughed and laughed, trying to tell him, “No, seriously, you don’t understand, this is _hilarious_ , oh goddammit,” the adrenaline shaking the words out of him as he kept accidentally hitting the gas and spinning the stuck tires while miles away Michael yelled, “GAVIN, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, THE ROAD IS THERE _FOR A GODDAMN REASON_ , YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE, FUCK ME, NO, FUCK _YOU_ , GAVIN, GAVIN, _GAVIN, HOOOOOOLY SHIIIITTT!_ ” Bumps, bruises, scrapes, Ryan was cut up on one side and Jack walked out of that one clean except where he hit head on the window, “you motherfucker, that fucking hurt,” it took Ryan a week and a half to heal, Ray and Geoff smirking at everyone else because they got away fine, “we had no trouble, zero, y’all are a bunch of children.” Gavin spent that week and a half trailing Michael around, “oh, don’t be mad at me, Michael, look, I got you new rockets, Michael, rockets, I know you love rockets,” Michael tackling him to the ground whenever he got a chance, “for your own good, Gavin, _stay down_.” Jack sat on him once, to make a point, possibly.

(It took maneuvering, but Ryan would find ways to worm into conversation, “the road is there for a goddamn reason,” and it worked like a charm, almost as good as hypnosis, Michael would growl and Gavin would immediately giggle-flinch, “oh my God, no, _no_ , Michael, you’re driving next time, remember, I’m letting you drive,” and that would be the end of all things, “you’re _letting_ me drive?!”, a sort of apocalypse come early. Ryan wishes he had popcorn.)

He can count on both hands the times he’s been injured, can count on both hands the times any of them have been injured, come to think of it, he’s lost count, this isn’t a pretty business to be in. He’s had more bullet grazes than actual bullet holes, Ray’s keeping a tally when he can be bothered, and once there was sad proximity to a bomb Gavin had thrown that netted him some broken bones and slow downtime and Gavin’s apologetic tender loving care which was downright _frightening_. Ray shot him in the leg once (“ _once_ , my hand slipped and you were almost on fire, you sonuvabitch, what do you want from me, Jesus Christ, I can’t work in these conditions,” Ray grinning, laid-back, happy and celebrated as the Bastard Who Shot Ryan, he knows they’d all love to shoot him and he’d love to shoot them too, it’s so damn romantic, love and bullets, right?); Michael’s burned a couple pairs of his shoes while Ryan was wearing them; Jack got them stuck in a tree (don’t ask) and almost at the bottom of a lake (again, _don’t ask_ ); Geoff got him locked in a pawn shop cage (“you might be worth an iFruit, _maybe_ ”); and Gavin, well, Gavin will somehow manage to kill them all, it feels inevitable, Ryan will be dismayed if Gavin kills everyone else and misses him, that’s just wrong.

They are reckless in their different ways and Ryan thinks that’s part of the fun. You don’t get anywhere by being careful, you get there by carefully being adventurous. Or very strategically deciding where to fire your bullets. Or gently nudging cars aside with a rocket launcher. Or kindly helping the city with some demolition. 

He watches them all, watches his crew, they help him bring the city to its knees, so their well-being is important, he’s not a creepy stalker, fuck you, he’s keeping tabs on the crew. It keeps life interesting, he wouldn’t want to get too blasé about his criminal life. (Though sometimes for his own sanity, he might drop them all in hole somewhere, a nice deep hole because really, he knows crazy, he can recognize it, hell, he can _smell_ it, and the crew reeks of crazy like Gavin’s favorite wafty minge joke.)

They’re reckless as shit and hazardous as fuck-all and only sometimes are things ill-advised – to be fair, most things are ill-advised, but no one listens to Ryan, he’s only trying to point out there are other more _exciting_ ways to do things. Geoff rushes in, gets flustered and caught up in the frenzy and _still_ gets out by the skin of his teeth (there was the time his beard got singed, Ryan’s not mentioning names or the words “ignition” and “bomb,” so now Geoff has his trademark moustache, though the tips look mighty singe-able). Jack is careful, sticks to the details and to the plan, but his harried adjustments to change are all over the map (sometimes literally), and his temper and last ditch fuck-it approach means carnage to their vehicles and any in the area. Ray is like Ryan, guns out, let’s take this bitch _down_ , except Ray’s faster and deadlier but it means he’s also face-first into the fucking action, a kind of relaxed daredevil who’s out having fun, he’s not bothered by the ammo flying his way, this is his party and you’ve been invited by force, motherfucker. Michael is a brawler, a smart berserker with fire in his eyes and his mouth and he doesn’t give a fuck, get outta of the way, goddamn moron, what do you think you’re doing, _who_ the _fuck_ do you think you’re shooting at. Ryan’s decided that Gavin is disorientation incarnate, like a drunken night spent shooting at the stars only to sit around and wait to see where the bullets came back down; there’s a reason he’s their saboteur and jack-of-all-trades, with Gavin, there aren’t _causes_ , there are only _effects_. 

It’s like Ryan’s private social experiment. It’s almost better than damn cable.

But then there are the moments when they all limp back to one of their safehouses or apartments (Michael’s still has a large stain on the rug he could claim is a spilled bottle of wine, but Jack remembers it a bit differently, blood running down his arms and in his eyes, his beard dripping red), and those scare the ever-loving shit out of Ryan even as he expects them.

Michael bruised and bloody on one side of his face, Gavin hovering, “Michael, look at you, Michael!”

“Don’t cry about it, Gavin, Jesus god _dammit_.”

“I will if I want to, you sodding prick of a prick. Mingy little smegpot.”

“I’ll show you smegpot, c’mere, asshole.”

Michael’s blood smeared on Gavin’s shirt and Geoff pacing somewhere in the background, Ryan’s eyes stinging with sweat and face paint, as Ray played nurse and Jack calmed everyone down, rumbly voice low as he applied bandages.

Or, the smell of smoke and gasoline, Jack shaking Ryan awake, “c’mon, _c’mon_ , let’s go, we gotta go, fucking crap,” and for a second, all Ryan could see was a rotor turning slowly, chopping at grass. 

Or, Geoff’s comm suddenly going silent and Gavin yelling, “Geoff, are you outside, bloody hell, Geoff, _this is fucking bollocks_ ,” as a car explodes nearby, lifting off the ground, and the sirens wail closer and closer, so Ryan steps out into the street and aims for the lit cherries on the cop cars, a little warning for the 5-0; Jack suddenly spotting for them, in his ear breathing slow and steady, “two on your left, okay, Ray, now, three on your right,” the heat from the fire and the asphalt coming up through Ryan’s boots and he’s never felt more awake, captured in a single piece of time, the rapid recoil of the gun against his body as he fires, the sound of things disintegrating around him, Michael next to him, grabbing his arm and he sees him mouth _rocket_ before Ray says, “Duck, duck, goose,” and death from above whistles over their heads. Geoff, one arm in a sling, one foot in a cast, drugged to the gills, flipping off the smiley face on the wall at the safehouse, “that fucker’s got in for me,” he claimed.

Or, Gavin riding pillion with Ray, the two of them a green streak down the road, Ryan doing Ray’s job (and shit, it’s a fucking hard as fuck job), shooting around them before a rival gang member gets a lucky shot and the bike flips. That gang member’s dead, Michael made sure, Jack and Geoff carting everyone else off and Ryan had to watch so far away on top of a blinding glass building. Ray unconscious for a day and Gavin pale with blood loss, Jack running on zero sleep, fueled by his temper and adrenaline, Geoff with a bottle in one hand and the TV remote in the other, listless. That was tough, Ryan didn’t laugh that week, that was a black mark on the calendar, even with Ray’s ribbing, “Ryan the quiet psycho guy.” He still uses that bike for target practice.

There was the month where he crashed a bike, earning him a fucked-up knee, a dislocated shoulder, and twenty-two stitches. He lost three days, they’re simply gone; the crew tells him he spent it high on painkillers, laughing randomly and making poor attempts to grope them and trailing off in the middle of sentences (“dude, it was fucking _intense_ as _shit_ , you’d get real serious and start telling a story or some shit, then nothing, you’d stop talking and get this grin on your face, like you were hearing voices or some goddamn thing, it was – you told me once that my face would make a good and then you _fucking stopped_ , right there, my face would make a good _what_ , mother _fucker_ ,” Michael explains, hands up in fists, and Ryan laughs, “Why would I finish that sentence, sounds like I told a good enough story right there”), though he won a game of Monopoly by quietly stealing people’s money and then robbing the banker. _That_ he wishes he could remember because honestly, he’s fucking proud of himself for that.

The time Gavin broke his nose and stopped breathing in his sleep. The time Ray twisted an ankle jumping down from a perch and his launcher went off, firing a grenade under Geoff’s car. The time Michael’s bike with him on it (“why’s it always bikes, _I fucking hate these fucking pieces of shit, fuck!_ ”) slid right into Ryan’s line of fire. The time Jack landed wrong from a parachute jump and broke his collarbone. The time Ryan took a bullet to the shoulder from the guy he’d carjacked to get him to the start of the heist (“only you, Ryan, only you,” “no, it’s happened to Gavin,” “yeah, but that was _Gavin_ ”).

It makes for great amusement, Ryan loves the hell out of all of it, every single clip, every single wad of “dolla dolla bills,” Michael hollers, every single concussive blast and fire and sound of breaking glass. 

He’s there, knee deep in it, happy and grounded, “think I can spell ‘dick’ here in gasoline before the cops come,” and Jack saying, “I dare you to,” it’s mayhem, _his_ mayhem, and he fucking loves every second of it.

It’s serious work, keeping this train going, but he’ll bleed for it, if necessary.

-

So like a proper rookie banana, Ryan went and got himself hurt, the arsehole. Got himself bunced off the bonnet of a car (“I was majestic as fuck,” Ryan insisted and Gavin reassured him, “Yeah, standing there, firing the wrong way, you colossal tit,” and Jack agreed, “Majestically stupid”), fell on his arm wrong, almost completely mullered his wrist, he can still shoot and do other shoot-y things, but he’s One-Winged Ryan now. Injuries are nothing new and nothing old, it happens, ‘it’s a gamble’ is Gavin’s thinking.

He finds Ryan with his pots of face paint and a brush and this _expression_ , six hours before a gang attack, three before they have to start getting into place, and _bollocks_ , he doesn’t have his phone on him, it almost drowned in the last energy drink Michael knocked over.

“Help me,” Ryan says, all small and sad, it sounds quite pathetic really, coming from such a big guy, but Gavin doesn’t like it when his crew are sad.

He makes a cooing sound, he can’t help it, look at the big donut, what an idiot prick, “alright, what’ll you give me for it, and don’t say ammo, that doesn’t work on me, it only works on Michael and Ray. And sometimes Geoff. And _occasionally_ Jack.”

Ryan’s eyes narrow. “Dammit. Fine. You can…” He’s searching and Gavin’s on pins and needles, this is fun, this is so much fun, he claps his hands in the pull of suspense, ooh, it’s killing him. “You can do the design.”

Gavin hears an angelic chorus in his head or it’s residual left over from some comm feedback, either way, there’s a shining in the air, he might see the promised land.

Ryan’s staring at him, wary as a wolf, so Gavin tries to calm down, no need to get eaten before he gets to paint a masterpiece, he needs to be able to present Ryan’s inner lunatic on his face, it’ll be every word synonymous with “fucking top.”

“A few stipulations,” Ryan starts and Gavin tries to stop his bubble bursting, it won’t it can’t it’s still there floating within his grasp – “no dicks or balls or anuses.”

“Anusii?”

“Anuses,” Ryan says with weird finality, Ryan knows weird stuff about weird things—

“Ryan the plural anus guy.”

“I'm ignoring that you said that, and no vaginas—“

Gavin laughs, he hadn't even imagined that, goddammit, he should’ve thought of that.

“And no clown shit.”

Holding his breath, Gavin waits, but Ryan’s stopped, surely he knows better, what a fucking sausage, Gavin’s about to pass out when Ryan says, “And no words, it has to be a design.”

Well, there goes the large KNOBHOLE that would’ve taken up all of Ryan’s face.

“Do you know how to have _any_ fun, Ryan?”

With a roll of his eyes, Ryan hands him the brush, then glances around before Gavin realizes the bathroom isn’t exactly big enough for both of them, so three trips and some bizarre noises later, Ryan is perched on the kitchen counter and Gavin’s elbowed his way between his knees, brush held loosely, like he might paint Geoff's mustache on him and now there’s an idea.

He smirks and oops, right, Ryan can see him.

“Don’t forget, I _can_ tell what you’re doing, I can _feel_ it and there’s also the small matter of you being within strangling distance,” Ryan says happily, feet kicking a bit as if this is a fun fair and he’s asked to be a tiger, bloody hell, Gavin should paint him as a tiger.

But no, he’s got his idea and he’s running with it, caution be damned and gone to the winds, it’s a gamble. Life is fun and everything else is bollocks. Or something along those lines.

Exhaling, he paints Ryan’s nose and Ryan wrinkles it, says, “Jealous?”

“Of what.”

“My regular-sized nose.”

Gavin stabs at Ryan’s mouth and Ryan splutters. He gets to paint in silence for a bit, but he feels a thought coming and when they run in on him like this, he has to know, that’s how he works, he wants to know how everything else works.

“Do you think rain is actually just clouds falling out of the sky?”

“Do I think rain is clouds falling out of the sky.”

“Yeah.”

He likes asking Ryan because Ryan knows weird stuff about weird things and Gavin likes to know weird stuff and weird things. And because Ryan really considers his questions, as if they’re challenges. They both like weird challenges. Ryan hmms a bit under his breath, so Gavin prompts him, “’Cause clouds are made of rain, right, so maybe they're just—“

“But even after it rains, there’re still clouds, they don’t just _disappear_ —“

“Yeah, but they eventually use themselves all up, right—“

Thinking, Ryan kicks his feet again and Gavin almost gives him a jagged ridge of red, “stay still, you dope.”

They argue for a while, it makes Gavin happy, argument’s good for the blood, especially when Ryan really gets into it, this incredulous tone in his voice, like maybe Gavin’s head is this wonderland of nonsense and mayhem, then Gavin’s starting on the third color, making the curve, when Ryan stops talking mid-question and bursts out laughing, so that Gavin winds up painting his own wrist.

“What was – what, you absolute _knob_ , oh my God, what’s going on.”

“I know what design you’re doing, Gavin.”

A squeak escapes him, it happens, sometimes he can't stop it, like a fart, but Ryan pats him flat-handed, “Jack’s face’ll be fucking priceless.”

They’d have to hide Ryan from Jack until the attack begins, but Gavin pictures it, Jack laughing so hard he crashes the van, spilling them out like candy and that would be bad but also fucking _amazing_ , he’s laughing and Ryan laughs with him, kicks again, the pot of blue almost slipping off the counter, he makes a miraculous catch, holding it up, he is the champion of the day, Ryan golf-clapping and then someone clears their throat.

“What the actual fuck?”

“What is happening right now.”

Michael and Ray stand in the kitchen entrance, wide-eyed, Michael’s mouth open a bit. As if he might spook them, Ray very slowly gets his phone out of his pocket, aims it at them, so Gavin tugs on Ryan until they can pose awkwardly and the camera clicks as Ray squints behind his glasses, “Are you kidding me with this.”

“Hi, guys,” Ryan says, a tad sheepish for Gavin’s taste, waving. Gavin twists against Ryan’s knees to see them properly and waves too, almost spilling the pot of blue, “Hi, Michael! Hi, Ray!” Maybe if he smiles his charming smile they’ll let him paint them as well, they can go as animals or devils, why hasn't he thought of this before, almost better than the masks they get every once in a while—

“So, uh,” Ray starts and Ryan shrugs, “Mistakes were made.”

“Alright. Thought we’d check ‘cause, Gav, you weren’t answering your phone,” Michael says carefully, circling them, as if he’s scented blood and Ryan sits still, Ray circling the opposite, but Gavin sighs. Honestly. 

“I can’t find my phone and anyway, I’ve been a bit busy, haven’t I,” he huffs. If they really can’t tell what’s going on, can’t put the pieces together, then fine, it’s his story to write so he’ll tell it.

“You caught us a bit early, lads, but here goes: I proposed to Ryan here and he accepted and now I'm exercising the rights of the fiancé—“ and that’s what he’s going with, alright, fiancé face-painting rights, why not, Gavin smirks to himself, life is fun and everything else is bollocks—

“Fiancé?” Ryan says, sounding like he might cry, and Gavin glares, “oh, don’t cry, I know, it’s all so beautiful,” but they still have an audience, so he digs an elbow into Ryan's knee, “ _OW_ , oh, absolutely. I’m overcome with emotion. Gavvy-Wavvy.” Dry as desert, that Ryan.

Gavin stabs at him with the paintbrush. “Yeah? Well, don’t faint, you’re so _overcome_ with emotion.”

Michael rolls his eyes so hard, it looks like he’s passing out, “Overcome with fucking disbelief, Gavin, seriously with this shit.” 

Ray’s still got his phone pointed at them and he chuckles, push of breath, and Gavin watches the realization come with the smile.

“Good job on the painting, Gavin,” he says and Michael takes a step back, the way he moves when judging the distance to lob a grenade, and he laughs the same as Ray, Gavin’s a little jealous, they’ve all been around each other too long (not long enough, Gavin still has the heist coming up where he gets to be the boss, Geoff taking time off to save his liver or his thinking or brain or something, Gavin wasn’t paying attention, but he gets to switch everyone’s jobs around and it will be toppers). 

“Nice one, Gav.” 

“Aw, thanks, boi, my little Michael.”

“Uh, shit, don’t think you can be calling me that anymore, not with your _fiancé_ around,” Michael says where he’s leaned against the counter, not looking scared whatsoever, Gavin’s annoyed, again, this isn’t the proper reaction, what the bollocking shit.

Around the drag of the brush, Ryan says, voice generous and rich, “Oh, I don’t mind, Gavin can do what or who he wants _in as many ways_ as he wants, his happiness is my _highest_ priority,” and laughing, Ray says, “Until he knocks you out of the cargobob accidentally. On purpose.”

Gavin glares at them all. He might knock every last one of the bastards out of the cargobob and scarper off somewhere nice and lovely.

“Would you fight for me, Michael, would Mogar fight for me.”

Michael and Ryan glance at each other and Gavin grins as their eyes narrow, then they both say, “Nahhhh,” and today is going to shit, Gavin is _absolutely_ offended. 

“What? _What?!_ ”

“It’d be like two mighty titans fighting over a toothpick stick man with a big nose. What part of that fucking scenario sounds remotely likely.”

“He does have a point,” Ryan pipes up.

“Oh shut it. Ray?”

“I'm just the war photographer. Picking artsy filters, don't mind me.”

“Bollocks! Bloody bollocks!” He’s run out of words and sticks with flinging noises at them until Michael says, “Shut the fuck up,” eyes shining and fond. 

It’s quite possible this is Gavin’s life, why oh why, things were nice, he had Dan, he had his tech, which he still has his tech, he does the tech as well as other things, but now, now he’s surrounded by idiot minges and his sole joy in this life is to fuck with them. And hey, that’s actually not so bad.

“Does Jack know what I did with his parachute.”

“You’re such an asshole, Gavin.”

Somewhere in the kitchen, Ray finds a Sharpie, two Sharpies, a whole package of colored Sharpies, they must be Jack’s, he marks up maps like a strange person who likes maps, Gavin’s forgotten the word, and he and Michael draw on Ryan’s cast as Gavin finishes his design. 

“There better be lots of dicks, dicks with wings, _flying_ dicks,” Gavin says, filling in a spot he missed at the edge of Ryan’s jaw, “stop moving, you sod, stop it, Ryan, _stop!_ ” since Ryan keeps snapping at Gavin’s nose with his teeth. 

“There’s a gargantuan fleshy nose-thing right in my face, I want it to stop threatening me,” Ryan explains, a little whine to it.

They do surprise Jack as he’s loading the van and it’s probably a good thing this time that it’s not moving, Gavin mourns because it would’ve been stellar, it’s a massive loss, but Jack simply jumps back, rocking the van, hand to his chest, “Oh my _God_ , what the fuck, _what the fuck_ , Ryan, is that you, what’d you _do_ ,” he’s laughing, so high and breathless it makes Michael grin, “oh my God, has Geoff seen you yet?” 

Ray positions them into champion poses, “war photographer, gotta get my pics, no, stand right there, right the fuck there, put your foot on his chest, wait, I used the wrong filter.” Gavin directs them, Gavin their camera guy, he’s got the eye, _yes_. Him and Michael threatening each other with sticky bombs. Ray and Jack fighting for a gun. Ryan and Ray having a sniper battle, barrel to barrel. Jack sprawled on his back with a gun pointed at Ryan’s face because Gavin’s painted it to look like an archery target. 

Finally, Jack’s laughed himself tired and he says, “Gavin, seriously, has Geoff seen Ryan yet.”

“No, not yet.”

And no one ever suspects it of Jack, Gavin always has, he knows the bloody bastard after all, this look of pure naughtiness crinkles his face, down into his beard (Gavin suspects Jack keeps all his really good swear words and troublemaking in his beard), “well, let’s go show him, now’s the time, he’s busy double-checking the ambush points, he’s focused.” 

To sweeten this up a bit more, Gavin rocks on his heels, gives a little hop, and confesses, “Actually, Geoff paid me to come find you, Ryan, said he didn’t want to do it himself and have to deal with your pathetic whinging, so it’s all his fault really.”

Jack’s grin turns positively evil, Gavin is delighted, the day isn’t shit and he sees the same smile spread to the other guys, they really have been spending too much time together, Gavin sniffles, it’s beautiful.

“He _paid_ you – that’s even better,” Jack says, tone pushed deep.

“He deserves what he gets,” Michael states, nodding.

It’s perfect, Ryan slips into the room without a peep, Geoff’s got a lamp focused on the table with the photographs and maps, so there are shadows around him, he’s in a pool of light and Gavin couldn’t have directed it better, the target face paint floating in the dark as Ryan casually steps close to their esteemed boss, “Hi, Geoff.”

‘Cause what _they_ get is what they oh-so rightfully deserve for being such angelic creatures, Geoff screaming, “ _SHIT ON MY DICK_ , OH MY GOD, RYAN, IS THAT YOU, YOU SICK SICK BASTARD, I'M GONNA DIE, YOU FUCKING GAVE ME A GODDAMN HEART ATTACK, YOU SACK OF SHIT, _JESUS FUCK_.”

They dissolve into a pile of laughing bodies, Michael crying softly, “I can’t breathe I can’t breathe, oh my God,” as Ryan intones, “O, hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth, Geoff Ramsey, and meet the instrument of your demise!” and pushes Gavin forward, “aw, thank you, look at you, lovely Ryan.” Instantly, Geoff turns murderous, “Gavin, you, I,” and he can’t talk anymore, growling and punching the table.

But Gavin’s day is getting better, oh, he can’t believe it, he squeals a bit when Michael walks up, eyes watering, laughter in each breath.

“Yeah, more news for you, Geoff.”

Geoff’s inhaling and exhaling noisily, hands on his knees. “No, no more news, fuck you and the news you rode in on.”

“Well, Gavin painted Ryan’s face because, and you might want to sit down for this, Geoff, there’s wedding bells!” Michael adds some random shouts and Gavin looks coy or demure or both, either/or. “They’re fucking engaged!” 

“Or they’re engaged in fucking,” Ray says.

“Oh, don’t say that.” Geoff looks like he’s in proper pain.

“And inspired by the goddamn power of love, Ray and I would also like to announce to you, our friends and fucked-up family, that we’re also fucking engaged!”

“Or engaged in fucking,” Ray says.

“Oh, don’t say that either.”

“So that, uh, just leaves you and Jack,” Michael says, “we expect our wedding invitations in the mail any day now.”

“I don’t do cake,” Ray says, cool customer, that Ray, and Gavin is pleased _beyond belief_ , this day has come out better than top, how’s that even possible, Geoff’s holding on to the table like he might fall over and Jack’s leant against the wall laughing again and Ryan’s target face is creased with a huge frown, he’s simply saying, “I hate you all, I’m going to murder you someday.”

Michael’s scooped Ray up, tongue stuck out in the general direction of Ray’s mouth, and Ray fights a little, “Michael, no, Michael, please, not front of the others, I don’t want to share our love.”

“You’re all fired, get out,” Geoff says, but he’s laughing, his shoulders shaking. He makes a bellowing noise, “ow, my heart.”

Later, the gang attack goes off without a hitch except Gavin gets excited, jumps out of the van before it stops moving and sprains his knee, yelling, “OH, BLOODY HELL AND BOLLOCKS, REALLY, WHAT?!” Michael shoving him back into the van, “Cover us from here, you fucking lunatic, you’re dumb as fuck, Gavin, _Gavin_ ,” he hugs him sideways, curly hair tickling Gavin’s face, the carbine rifle pressed against his ribs, “stay here, boi, stay here.”

Then Michael runs into the fight, saying, “You deserve what you get, Gavvers!”

Over the comm, Ryan says, “That wasn’t very majestic, Gavin.”

“Oh, shut your knobhole, Ryan!”

-

Jack frowns. He might give up, it’s a tempting idea. “Gavin, you sonuvabitch, what’d you do to my parachute?”

“Wellllllllll,” Gavin draws the word out, tossing his cards on the table, and Jack crosses his arms, this should be good, he can’t _wait_ to hear this, “I wanted to write JACK SUCKS KNOBS on it, so I opened it, got it unfolded, got started, and then I realized I’d misspelled SUCKS somehow, and _then_ I couldn’t get the bloody thing folded back.”

It’s possible Jack might murder Gavin, this isn’t the first time he’s felt the impulse, but Gavin’s eyes are shining, as if the prank was still a fucking good idea, Christ, why does Jack put up with this. He doesn’t have to. Really. 

“So.”

“So?”

“You’re gonna get me a new ‘chute, right?” If the answer is anything but yes, there will be blood spilled and Geoff might be angry, Michael too possibly, Jack raises his eyebrows, his usual defense is ‘who doesn’t want to kill Gavin.’

Gavin grins, big as the world, and says, “I did,” and wonder of wonders, he _did_. Jack puts homicide on the back burner as Gavin hands him a new parachute, trilling a sort of victory march or something.

“I’m not thanking you.”

“Not with words. You could always blow me,” Gavin says, grin sliding into a smirk and nope, homicide is front and center again.

“Why the _fuck_ would I do that.”

“As thanks.”

“For ruining my fucking parachute in the first place?” It’s amazing as shit how Gavin strains incredulity. Jack closes his eyes, maybe if he can’t see Gavin, he’ll go away. Then he has a thought and sometimes he speaks without thinking, this is one of those times and he will beat himself to shit later. “Aren’t you ‘engaged’ to Ryan anyway.”

This conversation’s gone on long enough and Jack just made it worse because Ryan flips him off and Jack can’t do it back, he is _truly_ fucking sorry. Throwing his cards down, Ryan says, “Hasn’t that insanity worn off yet.”

“No, I’m not engaged to that stupid bitch anymore,” Gavin says with a dismissive flick of his hand and Jack sighs loudly to cut him off, but Gavin charges ahead, “not since he let himself be seduced by Ray.”

“I what? I seduced someone?” Confused, Ray looks up from counting his bottle cap money, then he leans back in his chair, stretching to gesture at himself lewdly, “why _yes_ , yes, I did.” He blows kisses at Ryan and Gavin makes a shocked face.

“Ryan, how _could_ you let yourself be seduced by Ray’s superior killing prowess?”

Ray’s chair tips forward hard as he scowls and flips Gavin off, “So not this smokin’ body, huh,” as Ryan hmms thoughtfully enough to make Jack sigh again, “You said it yourself. Killing prowess I could absolutely go for.”

Around his beer bottle, Michael snickers, then recovers with an expression of comical outrage. “Ray, how could you, how could you do this to me, to _us?_ What about our extra super special sparkly love?” Hand to his chest, he moans, “My heart, she is broken.”

Scrunching his eyes shut, Jack groans, “Oh good lord,” and with a _thunk_ , Geoff drops his head on the table, muttering, “Oh my God, why is this happening,” and Gavin flips Michael off, “Don’t yell at Ray, you saucy minx, you cheated on him with me and Geoff!”

“Wow, _both_ of you? I am _good_ , I am a fucking _god!_ ” Michael crows.

“Or a god of fucking,” Ray points out.

Geoff groans from the table as Jack stares at them flatly. “Can I unsubscribe, I’d like to unsubscribe.”

“I’d like to unsubscribe from life,” Geoff says pitifully. 

“What about Jack,” Michael asks, sly, he looks like a demonic cherub, “poor Jack isn’t getting laid.”

“We’ll get there, Jack’s plotting his revenge,” Gavin assures him and Ray tips his chair back, commenting, “Sexy, sexy revenge.” Geoff groans again as Gavin and Ray fist bump.

Why is this his crew, Jack wonders that _really_ fucking often, it used to be him and Geoff, enjoying their easy criminal lifestyle, breezing through everything like that Adder they stole once, cruising through the streets without a care in the world even with the police sirens hot behind them. Then somehow in quick succession, they acquired the mouthy little fighter, the mischievous pain-in-the-ass, the weapon disguised as a quiet snarky kid, and last but not least, the charming psychotic. Jack still isn’t sure how it happened, it just _happened_ , he and Geoff collecting dangerous strays, and now they’re, what, a fucking family or some shit. They’ve claimed the city, it’s _theirs_ , though Jack isn’t sure how _that_ happened either, there have been lots of explosions and destroyed vehicles and even a downed jet, lots of ammo and money and yelling at each other, lots of mistakes and near-misses and the brilliant pieces when everything comes together. 

It’s fucking unreal. Boggles the mind.

They’re at their second safehouse, out on the porch, it’s pretty goddamn idyllic, the sky is blue and the desert shines in front of the mountains, the city is a hazy jewel behind them. It scares Jack a little, this is something that could be taken from him, Gavin doing half-assed cartwheels to make Geoff laugh and Ray disappears only to roll back into sight on a dented Faggio, yelling, “HA HA, I HAVE YOUR MONEY, YOU CAN’T CATCH ME,” shaking a bag of bottle caps. 

They’ve planned a new heist, Jack knows this is merely the build-up, the nervous energy of the waiting burning off. They were playing cards and every three seconds, Michael had to push at Gavin’s cards, “ _Gavin_ , I can see them, you dumbass,” and Gavin sticking his tongue out, “Well, stop looking, you cheating prick!” and no one was actually winning, Geoff flicking bottle caps at people with a cackle and trying to tip over Ray’s chair. 

Ryan finds another Faggio from Christ knows where, chasing Ray, a slow puttering race around the house. Michael’s playing solitaire, Gavin finally settled at his elbow, they’re talking nonsense, Gavin asking if Michael thinks bones have feelings, “they hurt when they get hurt, do you think they get angry with us,” and Geoff takes a swig from his nearby bottle of whiskey, glancing at Jack.

“Remember the good old days, Jack?”

“I sure do,” Jack says, smiling. He never would’ve guessed this is what his life would be like, Michael’s voice and profanity level rising along with Gavin’s more persistent questions, and Ryan’s maniacal laughter as Ray yells, “NOOOOOOOO,” followed by a loud crash as they run into each other. 

“It was just the two of us, Geoff.”

“We had peace and quiet.”

“No stress.”

“The easy days.”

“We robbed people at the beach.”

“Drank margaritas after.”

“The good old days.”

Geoff dumps cold coffee out of a mug, pours Jack a big shot of whiskey, and they toast together, ignoring it when Michael and Gavin almost break a chair wrestling, and Ryan and Ray start shooting bottle caps, clay pigeon style.

“Yup, the good old days.”

“ _We_ are your goddamn good old days, you old shits,” Michael says, his smile fucking up his petulant tone as he heads into the house, “ _this_ is the golden age, and you are fucking welcome.”

Geoff pours Jack another shot, takes another drink.

The heist isn’t complicated, drawn out very neatly on the map (Jack couldn’t find his sharpies for two weeks, even after seeing the drawings on Ryan’s cast, the lads wouldn’t give him the damn sharpies) and this might very well be the golden age. Jack’s in a car this time, not hovering overhead like he prefers, he likes to be able to see what’s happening. They’re split between three cars and three bikes (Michael’s face went red, “Fucking bikes _again?!_ When will you learn, the bikes are _shit!_ ”). Ryan’s making _vroom vroom_ noises on the comm., which makes Geoff crack up, “stoppit, Ryan, I almost hit that fire hydrant, you stupid bastard, stop making me laugh.” 

Michael and Ray race through the streets and it’s soothing to Jack, they talk the entire time they ride, Michael’s voice light, “’Scuse me, ‘scuse me, ‘scuse me, there is _no need_ for that kind of language, sir, _sir_ , I said there is no need for that, pardon me, ma’am, oh watch out, ‘scuse me, pardon me,” and Ray’s got a color commentary going, “Pardon me, ma’am, oh, you are a sir, I do apologize, coming through, excuse me, miss, oh, wait, miss, your shirt looks like a picnic blanket, may I have it, I’ve got this lunch I need to eat, oops, oh well, excuse me, pardon me, hello, sir, that gesture was inappropriate, how dare you.”

Gavin’s nothing but random vowels and shocked noises, “bloody hell, what was that about, oh, no, that’s a _tree_ ,” not as soothing but Jack likes to hear it, dammit, he tracks the crew that way, Ryan taking a turn and imitating a tire screech with a high-pitched _eeeeeuuuurrrrrkk_. 

Michael, Ray, and Ryan on bikes; Geoff, Jack, and Gavin in cars, and the heist is simple: they hit three different spots simultaneously; the bike riders commit the theft, rig their bikes with sticky bombs, hop in the cars, and as the bikes blow, they all drive off into the sunset. Or mid-afternoon sun glare since it’s not late enough for the sun to be setting, whatever. There is a flaw in the plan that _Gavin_ is driving a car, but it’s marginally safer than him riding a bike and Ryan offered to be ferried about by him, “not that I’m the only one crazy enough to do it—“

“You are, you’re disturbed, we know it, it’s okay to admit it, you’re amongst friends—“

“ _But_ I do think I could balance out Gavin’s level of chaos—“

“What, with your own?” Jack asked. “Does this job require ridiculous levels of chaos.”

Geoff leaned his head on one hand, looking bored with the entire conversation. “No, it’s fine, really, Ryan and Gavin will end up driving into a ditch and then they’ll have to live there and I’m sure they’ll be very happy together, blowing shit up accidentally on purpose. Or blowing each other, whichever comes first. Heh.”

“No, he’s left me for Ray,” Gavin pouted, “at least for now, weren’t you listening earlier.”

“No, not really. When you open your mouth to say something, I just turn off my brain.”

Jack’s trailing Michael, Geoff’s trailing Ray, and they feel wise in their choices, Michael might have a hair-trigger but he’s incredible in a jam and Ray’s the responsible one of the lads (to a point, there isn’t much to be done when the younger ones start acting out; the gents sometimes feel their age and wisdom a bit too much, except, of course, when Geoff decides they should do wacky races involving cliffs or Mount Chiliad, or Ryan is giving into what he calls his “fun” side, or Jack deposits them all on the top of a building so they have to parachute down like angry, profanity-spewing balloons), so it’ll really come down to Ryan and Gavin getting in, getting out, and not getting blown up or captured.

The world looks brighter, more colorful, Jack watching a man walk by wearing what looks like a giant cat face shirt, “what the fuck is _that_ ,” he feels the speed, the rumble of the tires on the road, this is where his life is; Michael’s bike is a few blocks ahead of him, palm trees sliding by, and they’re about to shake up the city again, like earthquakes, they’re about to make everything theirs all over again, put their stamp on it, leave their mark, this belongs to the Fake AH Crew and don’t you _ever fucking forget it_. 

Under his breath, Ray mutters, “Dammit, I overshot, Geoff, I gotta turn around.”

And it’s as easy as the next breath, Jack and Geoff sing together, “Turn around, every now and then I get a little bit lonely—“ Immediately, they’re all on the comms, singing and mumbling the lyrics they don’t completely remember, the six of them connected tightly, and this is where Jack’s life is, Geoff practically yelling, voice hitting crazy high notes, “AND I NEED YOU NOW TONIGHT, AND I NEED YOU MORE THAN EVER,” Michael laughing so hard he can’t speak, Gavin saying, “Oh my _God_ ,” Ryan still humming in loud accompaniment to Geoff, and Ray’s given up, distracted, “Excuse me, sir, what a dumb hat, mind if I try to shoot it off your head?”

Jack’s flying, high and happy, then he sees the jewelry store come into sight, Michael already slowing down in front, and he grips the steering wheel, it’s like every other thing they’ve done as a crew, exciting, scary, awesome in the oldest use of the word (Jack hears it with Gavin’s accent, “ _awe_ some”); if this is how it ends, Jack won’t go out alone and afraid, he’ll be with these magnificent fucking assholes, pulling some of the worst shit Los Santos has ever seen (“in _style_ ,” Michael says, “we’ll look _good_ ”) and maybe they are all insane since they love it so much.

He stops at the curb, a little up from Michael’s bike, the red paint shining in the afternoon sun, and Michael loiters beside it, kneeling as if he’s tying his shoe. 

“Everyone ready,” Geoff asks, “Michael, you’ve got the worst one, so take your time, take what you can get, but haul anus when you need to.”

“Got it.”

Odd sounds from Gavin, then he says, “Ready.”

“Gavin, you bitch, are you sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure, bloody bastard.”

Geoff says, “One, two, three, _go_ ,” and Jack thinks of it as gears moving, pieces moving into place, fluid clockwork. The comms are nothing but loud demanding voices and he holds his breath, smashing glass and the harsh slide-click, _chuk-chuk_ , of a pump-action shotgun and startled smothered screams. 

Jack doesn’t feel antsy until they’re moving, it’s not this moment _during_ , but what he considers _after_ : the heist/attack/action is the _during_ and the getaway/escape is the _after_ , and that’s the part he worries about, them breaking apart and coming back together and he has that same buzz from this morning, the reminder that he has everything to lose, so he takes a breath.

Gavin cheerfully hollers, “Leg it!” because Ryan’s out first, “I got it, go, Gavin, go,” and Jack looks in his rearview, then there’s a _boom_ , the bystanders walking past him starting to glance around as a column of smoke appears down and five blocks over. 

“We’re on the highway,” Ryan reports, “so far, nothing.” Sirens are winding into their area and suddenly, the front window of the jewelry store shatters out into the street behind Jack.

“Holy shit, Michael! Michael, what’s going on!” Jack frantically twists behind the wheel, fighting his seat belt, he can’t see around the passenger seat, no, no no no, the buzz intensifies, spreading into his arms (he has all this to lose), but Michael says, “Security guard. Now he’s a goddamn _dead_ security guard, fuck, I’m almost done. Shit, fuck, fuck this shit, motherfucking _shit!_ ”

“I see fire trucks,” Geoff says and Ray is absolutely silent, no shouting, no gunfire, nothing. The seat belt is constricting Jack, but he can see the body of the guard on the sidewalk; he breathes and breathes, then Michael throws open the car door, tossing bags into the back seat, “Jesus _Christ_ , next time, _next time_ , that store is a three-man job, _at least_ , holy shit on a bicycle, who’s fucking idea was that, godammit!”

Inhaling sharply, Jack guns the car, clipping a man staring at them from the sidewalk, his coffee splashing over the windshield, the road half-lost in a wash of latte, then Michael yells, “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, fuck you, fuck you fuck you fuck you, what the actual shit,” he presses a button and the bike explodes as they speed around the corner, tires screaming.

Michael is furious, Jack reaching over to check him for injuries, “What happened, Michael, _Michael_ , what happened, are you okay?”

“I’m not fucking okay, that store has too much fucking shit,” Michael’s eyes flash, “ _and_ there were three goddamn guards, _three_ , Geoff, do you hear me, you fuck, _three_.” He holds his arm high by his shoulder and kicks at the footwell, “MOTHERFUCKING PISS GODDAMMIT,” then Jack sees it, blood oozing between his fingers.

“Fuck, Michael’s hit,” Jack says, and it’s _after_ , this is the part that scares him shitless, Michael puts his seat belt on one-handed, hissing through gritted teeth, but Geoff and Ray are horribly non-responsive.

“Ray? Geoff?” Gavin asks, he sounds far away. “Guys?”

They drive in silence, miles apart (broken, separated, he hates this part, so Jack drives faster) and wait.

They’ve been told not to stop until they get to the bridge heading to the mountains and it’s killing Jack, mile by mile, Michael cursing over and over like a mantra, Ryan trying to hum again, but it’s distracted and off-key.

The bridge whirs a high note as they drive over, then Jack immediately pulls over. He doesn’t see Gavin and Ryan’s car, they might be more inconspicuous, waiting at a gas station or one of the motel parking lots. 

They wait, Jack binding Michael’s arm with the half-filled kit he’s got in the back seat (“oh, goddammit, doesn’t anyone restock the kits,” Jack grouses and Michael laughs, a little too bitter, “like anyone of us are responsible adults”). 

Exhaling, Ray says, “Sorry about that, the owner decided to get a bit confrontational. He had an arm cannon, who knew,” and they’re talking at once, reconnected (but still separated, Jack needs to work on this issue of his). “Yeah, Geoff’s comm is out, that’s what happens when you try to be smart and—hold on.”

In the background, Geoff is yelling, “JUST FUCKING TRY IT, SUCK MY DICK,” then gunfire and Ray says over and over, “Dammit. Dammit. Dammit,” as if he’s utterly disinterested and frustrated at the same time.

More gunfire, Geoff faintly saying, “Holy shit, Ray, how’d you make that shot, lucky as dicks, how in the hell.” 

Michael chuckles, says, “Only Ray.” Jack breathes, squeezes Michael’s arm, and Michael smiles.

“Are we the only ones making the epic getaway?” Ray finally asks and Ryan replies, “Yes, now get your asses out here! We’re fucking tired of waiting on you two!” The relief is evident, a current between them, and Jack gets the car back on the road.

The haul is actually pretty good, though Michael yells at Geoff for about twenty minutes about the goddamn jewelry store, he won’t sit still long enough for Jack and Ray to patch him up, until he starts to go pale and Gavin makes him sit down, then half-sits on him to keep him from moving. Michael’s blood on Jack’s hands and streaked on his Hawaiian shirt is sadly not a new development, but he bites his tongue, doesn’t say anything. This is his life: he stitches up Michael, watches Gavin play with Michael’s hair, Ray cracking deadpan jokes about anything and everything, and Geoff finally sits on the floor, says, “I’m sorry, Michael.” Then he holds up an emerald, says, “But I specifically asked for diamonds,” and Michael hisses, “You sonuvabitch,” but he’s grinning. Ryan brings them all coffee and food as the sun goes down and a coyote runs past the house.

They watch Wheel of Fortune (Gavin _constantly_ wants to buy a vowel) and Jeopardy and Michael laughs at Geoff’s wild answers, Ryan clearing out complete categories by himself, and Ray wins Final Jeopardy, “ha ha, what a bunch of fucking losers!” It’s goddamn idyllic and Jack breathes. The news report is fantastic, aerial coverage and on-the-street witness interviews, shots of firemen putting out the burning remains of the bikes, a single shot of the shattered jewelry store window, and Michael sighs, eyes clear, “What a wonderful fucking world,” smile on his face.

Jack couldn’t agree more.

-

Ryan’s trying to put his feet up, there’s nothing close enough to use, so Michael pats his thigh, “c’mere.” With a smile, Ryan balances his feet on Michael’s leg, then Michael jerks away, Ryan falling forward, “you little asshole!” and Michael laughs, waves him back, “no, really, c’mon.” Wary, Ryan slowly lifts his legs, slowly stretches out, slowly rests his feet on Michael, then Michael twitches and Ryan kicks at him, hitting the table, but Michael grabs his ankles to keep him place. “Gotcha, fucker.”

“Are you done?” Geoff asks, staring them down. “You knocked over my coffee, thanks for that. I really appreciate it.”

“But now you have room for vodka,” Jack offers.

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“Thanks.”

Michael sighs, pats Ryan’s feet, and Ryan relaxes a bit more, propping an elbow on the table. They’re flopped into chairs, drinks at hand, greasy pizza boxes scattered about. It’s nice, a comfortable quiet and Michael savors it. He might love their frenzied moments of high-intensity criminal activity, but this is good, this is what makes life good, him and his crew enjoying a nice evening at their northern safehouse. The TV plays in the background, some stupid, shitty reality show offering white noise, colors flickering on the smiley face wall.

“We look like kinda ridiculous,” Ray says. He’s still wearing his white domino mask, the one he wears when ‘the occasion calls for it’ because “it makes me look classy,” he declared, and Michael agreed, “Classy as fuck,” clinking his beer bottle with the glass of whatever the hell Ray is drinking; Ryan’s face is free of paint and the skull mask because Gavin’s wearing the mask on his head backwards, it makes him look like he has two faces, “why y’all gotta keep being creepy,” Geoff whined, but all of them are dressed in blue suits, the same cut and vibrant electric shade, with varying blue-ish t-shirts under their suit jackets. “We look like a shitty, washed-up boy band.”

“You take that back,” Geoff demands, pointing a finger at him, “you take that back right the fuck now. We look magnificent.”

“Magnificently like a shitty, washed-up boy band,” Ray insists, pointing right back, and they get into an increasingly animated flip-off contest as Jack rolls his eyes.

“We look professional, like we fucking know what we’re doing,” Geoff says hotly, “we’re the Fake AH Crew and we’re here to fuck you up in style, you’re so very welcome.” 

Ryan squints at him. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“We appreciate you giving us these safety deposit boxes and y’all have an utterly _fantastic_ day. Have a grenade, too, it’s on the house.”

If they have to wear these for the next heist, Michael’s okay with it, they don’t look bad. At least they’re not wearing fucking yellow. “I think we look very professional, Geoff.”

“Proper thieves,” Gavin supplies and Geoff nods, “Exactly.”

“Aren’t we thieves already? Do we have to fill out forms and file with some governmental department?” Ryan asks, smirking and Jack laughs. 

Geoff grunts, stands up, buttons his suit jacket, and says, “Fuck you. I need vodka.” He wanders away and Michael wolf-whistles after him, Geoff shooting him a grin as he leaves.

Quiet again. Michael loves the city, he does, it’s like a huge beating heart, the lights and the streets and all the potential, but out here in the middle of nowhere, it’s different. Alive but slower, sometimes a little boring but a sweet change of pace. Coyotes yip outside in the dark, the moon’s full tonight, shining over the house and the small barn they use as a garage. They’re far enough outside the city to see stars and Michael thinks that’s absofuckinglutely tremendous, he’s spent some of his happiest nights out here with the guys, drunk, staring at the stars, “that constellation is a giant dick,” “as in it looks like a dick that is overly large or is it being mean to you,” hey, no one said they were geniuses. 

He loves it out here. 

Sitting outside with Geoff and a sixer, talking about things that came before the Fake AH Crew. Him and Gavin and Ryan breathing the night air, shaking out the adrenaline by trying out the new crossbow they’d just acquired, shooting down bottles as Jack, Geoff, and Ray slept off their wounds from a gang attack. On the porch, Michael watching Ray and Gavin walk in circles as they talked in the dusty yard, discussing birthday presents or some shit. This is where they’d thrown Jack a party after he’d had a hellish chopper crash, solemnly pledged their flowery love to him with detailed discussions of sexual positions and he told them to fuck right off back to hell, laughing until he cried. Ryan alone burning a pile of torn and bloody clothes, LSPD forensics would love to get their hands on so much evidence, and Ryan was burning it, shoulders hunched, he was so quiet, it’d scared Michael a little, so he’d gone out there by the fire and stood with him, not saying a word until Ryan told him he never thought he’d be good at this; they watched the crew’s blood burn and then Ryan thanked him, Michael will never forget that. So he hugged him. (He fucking loves hugs and he’ll hand them out whenever he chooses, so there, bitch. And his crew gives excellent hugs, he’s a lucky bastard.)

It might be fucked up, but he’s happy.

Back with his vodka, Geoff settles at the table, sighing in satisfaction. Jack closes his eyes, Michael thinks he looks like a young, content Santa Claus.

“Geoff?” Gavin asks.

“What’s up, buddy.”

“Are you excited?”

“Excited? For the heist? Excited as dicks, dude.”

Gavin makes a _pshaw_ motion (he’s British, it’s _pshaw_ to Michael instead of “shut up, not what I meant”). “No, well, yes, excited for our fancy heist, but I meant for the thrilling new installment of ‘As The City Burns.’”

Michael bursts out laughing, the shit Gavin comes up with, he will forever be surprised by Gavin, because even as he expects it, it still sideswipes him. Geoff pours more vodka.

“I’m going to regret asking, but what’s ‘As The City Burns.’”

“That’s the dumb shit Gavin’s been spouting lately,” Michael explains, really, that’s explanation enough, it is dumb shit but it’s entertaining dumb shit and Michael’s secretly eager to see where this goes. 

Geoff glares at the vodka as if it’s not working fast enough. “The dumb shit that’s different from the other dumb shit he usually spouts?” he replies, ignoring the little outraged cries from Gavin.

“Remember when I apparently fucked you both because Ray liked Ryan’s ‘gun’ better than mine,” Michael prompts and Ray nods, smirking, “I do like Ryan’s gun. Nice and long and thick.”

“Aww, thanks, Ray,” Ryan says, “you can use it anytime.” 

Ray raises a fist in victory. “Hell yes, we’ll just shoot everywhere.”

“Spray and pray.”

“So much pump action.”

“Shooting over and over.”

“It’ll be loud and exciting and _so_ sticky—“

Jack holds up a hand, face scrunched, disguising a smile. “Stop. Just stop.” 

“You’re just jealous, Jack,” Michael says, laughing while Ryan and Ray waggle eyebrows at each other for a bit.

“Sure I am.” Young Santa Claus’s brand of dry sarcasm, the gift that keeps on giving.

“But I still have a question for Gavin,” Ryan says, but Ray interrupts, “Wait, wait, I’ve got one more: your dick is high-caliber quality,” and Geoff gives a thumbs down, “Booooooo,” Jack covers his eyes, “For Christ’s sake, no,” but Gavin cracks up, “Oh my God, Ray, that was top,” and Michael loves it (happiest nights of his life), “Holy shit, Ray, that was fucking fantastic. Stop whining, Geoff, you love it.”

“Am I drunk yet?”

“No?”

“Then I don’t love it, I merely endure it.”

Ryan waves at them all to shut up. “Gavin, question. So on ‘As The City Burns,’ is the city always burning? Because we’d still need a place to actually do stuff.”

Despite himself, Jack laughs and Gavin immediately brightens. “Well, it’s literal and figurative and metaphorical, ‘cause we burn the city and the city burns with passion and like the city, we burn with passion and—“

“Is there amnesia? Secret love children? Drug cartels?”

“There can be.” Gavin’s eyes are so bright, it’s one of Michael’s favorite expressions, he looks like a hopeful little kid on Halloween.

“What about evil clowns, possessed ventriloquist dummies, and possible incest?” 

Jack is still laughing, looking like he hates himself for it, “Why do you keep asking him questions? Don’t encourage him!”

“Ryan the soap opera guy!”

“Not me! Gavin’s the one who started it!”

A coyote streaks past the window, high-tailing it at full speed, then a second, and Michael glances out the window to watch a third take off over the yard. There’s a flash of headlights on the hill behind the barn before they quickly go out. Somewhere out in the dark, the slow crunch of a heavy tread along the ground.

The guys are arguing about Gavin’s soap opera, “you said Jack would get laid, have someone fuck him already!” and a thread of heat winds up Michael’s spine, this is _their_ goddamn land, _their_ goddamn house, he is _fucking happy as motherfucking clam_ out here, no one is taking that away.

Another skip of headlights, he can see shadows moving around outside.

Hitting the table, he hisses, “Everyone shut the fuck up!” and they do, he should try that trick more often. “I think we’ve got some shitheads arriving uninvited.”

“Oh _fuck_.”

They’re a stone-cold crew, there isn’t any panic, it’s a fucking sign of how well they fit together that everyone knows what they’re doing and they don’t trip over each other to do it.

Ray and Gavin hit the lights and Michael hunkers down to let his eyes adjust, feeling for the gun he’d laid on the table hours ago. His arm is a little stiff and sore from the last heist, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t think about it, the gun is comfortable when he holds it. He thinks, _This is my fucking crew_. 

And he understands. No one is taking them away from him. Ever.

“If anyone gets separated, head to my apartment,” he whispers, “got it? I took Geoff’s dumbass idea and set up an armory. If we need it, it’s there.” And he’ll be able to make sure everyone’s safe, but he doesn’t say that, instead he says, “You dumb fucks better not be afraid of the dark.”

Shuffling, Ryan finds him, squeezes his shoulder. “Nah, just remember that _we’re_ the goddamn monsters in the dark, not them. They want blood, then we’ll fucking _bathe_ them in theirs.”

“Good God.” Jack sounds awed, somewhere off to Michael’s right. Kneeling under the window, Geoff says, “Fucking shit, Ryan. Jesus.”

“ _Wow_ , that was – that was strangely inspirational,” Ray says from across the room, all Michael can see is the white mask, but he hears the smile in his voice. 

“If that’s how you _really_ feel, Ryan, you should probably have your skull back.” A scrabbling under the table from Gavin and the grin of the skull mask slides across the floor at Ryan’s feet.

“Dude, you aren’t wearing shoes – fuck, we don’t have our comms either.”

Michael leans against the couch, shaking his head. “Fuck.” They were prepping for the heist, everything’s scattered around the house. The good comms are upstairs in Gavin’s bag (and the fact that the house has an upstairs was a whole two-day argument about siege tactics and maneuverability in tight spaces; it’s called “gang warfare” for a reason), but the backup comms are in the living room, “they’re second-rate though,” Gavin says.

“We have second-rate ones?”

“Yes, Geoff, I’ve told you this before!”

“When?”

“ _Before!_ No one _ever_ listens to me!”

The range on them is short, but it’ll do, they’ll be able to hear each other, that’s good enough for Michael. Weapons are in the next room, not too far. They’re only wearing these suits right now because once they’d gotten back with the clothes and pizzas, Geoff said, “Everyone put on your shit and give me a fashion show. And make it sexy, what do I pay you for,” catcalling and whistling them away to get dressed, “shake those asses, c’mon, if we’re gonna look pretty, then look fucking _pretty_.” Laughter and shoving and Jack and Ray doing runway spins, Gavin starting a striptease but not following through when he got to his pants and they booed him off the pretend runway.

They’re not prepared for this, but when are they prepared for anything, seriously. They’re the Fake AH Crew, they can handle any shit that’s thrown at them, monkey or heavy or otherwise. 

The invading gang is waiting, though Michael’s not sure for what. They all take a window (another argument, all the fucking windows, better to see what the enemy’s doing than worry about a little broken glass) and Gavin whispers, “I’ll get the grenades,” but Geoff vetoes it, “No, we’ve gotta play this smart instead of loud, for once. Everyone make sure you’ve got shoes on.”

First shots fired, bullets overhead, the kitchen window shattering and no one’s in the kitchen, Michael takes score, 1-0, Fake AH. A pair of boots clatter over to Ryan and Michael flinches at the noise, _goddamn_ , he watches Ryan lace up in sudden return of quiet. 

“We can do smart, okay, who’s got a weapon,” Jack asks, turns out three of them do, “unless you count either this stylish suit or my boyish good looks,” Ray replies and Geoff whispers, “Why do you think we got the suits.”

If the suits can’t take a simple thing like a heist, then they certainly can’t handle this fucking shit. Geoff would be so upset and that cheers Michael a little.

They can do this, it won’t be difficult. The moon’s out and it’s bright in the yard. Some of his explosives are in the barn. And every second that goes by Michael’s getting angrier and angrier. 

Another round of bullets, this time at Gavin’s window and he’s a fucking champ, doesn’t make a single sound, eyes big in the darkness as the glass showers down on him. 

“Gavin! _Gavin!_ You alright, boi?”

Gavin gives him a thumbs up and a wink, small pieces of glass glittering on his shoulders. 

The house is suddenly flooded with light and Michael laughs because holy fucking shit, they’re surrounded, but that’s not what’s funny, what’s so fucking funny is that the enemy just gave away their own positions. 

“Are they taunting us, I think they’re fucking taunting us,” Ray says and sure enough, a hail of bullets break Geoff’s window and the lights shut off again. Voices. “Are they trying to _scare_ us?”

Ryan starts laughing, a low black chuckle. “That’s _my_ job.”

“Ryan, normally, I’d tell you to dial back the creepy, but right now, I like it,” Geoff says, brushing glass off his leg. “They better not mess up my suit. Okay, Ray, up top. Your rifle handy?”

“Yeah, I know where it is. Much like Ryan’s gun, it really likes to be handled—“

“Shut up, just grab an earpiece and go up top, you handjob junkie,” Geoff says, so Ray salutes, disappears into the darkened house, and Michael feels a bit of loss, tells himself this is a just a normal gang attack, they’ve done this before, pushes for power and territory, it’s fucking _nothing_. How _dare_ they fucking come here. Gunfire on the other side of the house, they must see Ray’s shadow, as Gavin slides over the case. Ryan shifts away for a second, comes back to hand Michael an earpiece. “Ready when you are,” Ray says, he sounds like he’s in a can or something, metallic with an echo. “The moon’s great and all, but I could use a little more light.”

Geoff nods. “I know what’ll do it. Ryan, get sticky bombs, blow the cars on this side. Then lather, rinse, repeat on the other side. Honestly, who the fuck thinks this kind of attack is a good idea. What is this, a circle-jerk?”

“There’s a bag in the barn,” Michael tells Ryan, “by Geoff’s car,” and Ryan nods as Jack says, “I’ll go with you. Distract them a bit.”

He’s not going alone, what a dumbass, Michael says, “I’ll go with Jack.” 

“Then Gavin and I will go around to the other side and fuck their shit up over there. Jack, once you get a chance, get us some transport. Which means, Ryan, you fucking maniac, don’t blow up _everything_.”

A faint red glow sputters to life outside, and Ray says, “Gavin, you’ll love this, they have Molotovs.” 

“Boys, there’s a gas can by the back door,” Gavin says happily, “I just had an idea.”

Gavin’s grin is remarkable, like a Molotov of his own, lighting him up, and Michael grins back until he realizes. “Why the _fuck_ is there a gas can _in the goddamn house?!_ ”

“Never mind, get it when you get your weapons, Gavin,” Geoff says, shooing Gavin away. “I’ll meet you outside. Don’t get yourself shot before I get out there, okay?”

“Geoff, I am a _professional_ —“

“Yeah, he’s wearing his professional suit, Geoff,” Michael snickers, “makes him all fucking _professional_.”

From upstairs, Ray says, “Let’s make this snappy, they’re getting restless.”

“Ray, it’s hunting season,” Ryan says and Geoff mutters, “Creepy but appropriate, okay, everyone go.”

It’s like a bad gangster movie, people standing around in the yard, just waiting for something, some macho signal to raid their safehouse or what the fuck ever. The first shot from the Fake AH crew has the man with the Molotov go down as if he’s tripped, like a drunk who missed the curb. “Ray, you sure you need more light, goddamn that was some fancy shit,” Michael says, shooting at a shadow’s center of mass.

He and Geoff cover the others, then it’s an shootout. Michael’s thoughts go to white noise, tuning out everything except the buck of the gun and his crew’s voices. Jack at his side, “let’s go,” and they run to the back door, Ryan ahead of them, firing in short bursts. 

Sometimes Michael likes to watch his crew in action, he can fire and keep an eye on them, he can do both, he’s a motherfucking multitasking champion, and right now, Jack is immediately at his back as Michael walks into view from the edge of the house, Michael hears groans as Jack hits his targets and Ryan never misses, a line of bodies left in his wake before he breaks off to the barn.

Gavin’s yelling nonsense insults and Geoff is just as loud, yelling random shit, mostly complaining about how he just bought this nice suit and “you assholes better hope I can still wear it tomorrow, I don’t have time for this shit, I’ve got shit to _do_.” A crash of glass and Gavin shouts, “You don’t understand, I _love_ Molotovs, have a drink, you arseholes!”

Michael laughs under his breath, takes a moment to kneel for a better angle, Jack still at his back, and a bullet flies past him, so close it buzzes, “Ray, was that you, that better’ve been you, fucking _Christ_ ,” and Ray replies, “Yeah, oh hey, on your right.”

He and Ray both shoot the fucker charging him and it is fucking spectacular, Michael fucking loves it out here, this shit is beautiful. Then Jack bumps into him, grunts, “Oh what the fuck,” and Michael would swear he could feel it, a shot grazes Jack’s forearm, “Motherfucker!” 

Geoff and Gavin are still causing a ruckus, a burning light coming from behind the house, Ray calmly spotting for them as best he can, hustling from room to room at the top of the house, but Michael’s got Jack here and now, blood spreading up into the rip of his jacket sleeve.

It really pisses him off, _really_ fucking pisses him off. He and Jack press up against the house, he unclips the strap from his gun, the ground kicking up dirt with missed shots, “seriously with this shit,” and he winds the strap around Jack’s arm, clipping the ends together.

“You good?” he asks and Jack says, “I’m fine, I’m fine, I got it.”

“I know, you’re the fucking _man_.” More bullets headed their way and Michael smirks. “Always with the fucking shooting! Guess we should thank our goddamn lucky stars they don’t believe in the healing power of grenades.”

Jack laughs, then it’s back in the game. “Ryan, you ready? I’m heading to the barn. We gotta have some way to make a taco run after this.” 

“This little piggy went to market,” Ryan says on the comm, that black edge back in his voice, his _come play with me_ tone, “this little piggy stayed home.” He pronounces each word slowly, pauses between each sentence, a weird drag of tension. Michael’s getting chills even as he shoots. “This little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none.” Silence. “And then everyone better get the fuck out of the blasting zone because this little piggy cried _wee wee wee_ all the way home.”

“What the _shit_ , Ryan.”

“Excellent question, Michael, what the shit.”

Then the world explodes right in front of Michael, five cars, five blasts, a massive concussive slam of heat and noise and debris, flying twisted metal and he can’t see or hear for a second, he kneels where he is, _don’t move don’t move don’t move_ , until it passes. 

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, GODDAMMIT, RYAN.” His clothes feel misshapen and when he looks down, he’s got cuts everywhere, long lines of blood striping the blue of his pants, one of his cuffs is turning red, and there’s blood trickling down into his collar. Debris shards surround him like he’s the target at a shooting range.

He realizes it’s suddenly quiet on this side when Gavin whoops and Geoff yells, “Drinks are on us, you motherfucking assholes,” and the sky beyond the house flickers into life.

It’s still quiet. Except for the fucking sirens in the distance, goddammit.

“Ryan?” Jack asks, sounding harried. 

Michael glances around, burning car skeletons and bodies and black pools of blood, his limbs and right side sting, but he’s too furious to notice, searching for that goddamn skull mask when a motorcycle lurches at him, a woman firing wildly as the bike swings around the house, headlight throwing a search beam into the red dark and he yells a warning to Geoff and Gavin.

Then it detonates, rolling on past out into the desert scrub and falls over.

In the firelight, he sees shadows go into the house.

“Ray!”

“Oh shit,” Ray says, and Michael runs for the house, spots Gavin heading towards him, as Jack keeps calling for Ryan.

He’s first through the door and he has to duck a shotgun barrel, punching the man in the gut, the shotgun comes down hard on the back of his neck, but he keeps hitting, crashes the butt of his own gun up into the man’s chin, then his nose and the man goes down. Gavin against his side, taking out a woman heading for the stairs, Michael catches another in fight he finishes with two punches and a bullet, then three shots perforate the ceiling. He holds his breath, listens hard and hears the fast, soft noise of a knife sliding into a body.

“Ray?”

“Yeah, coming down. Grab whatever we need and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Found Ryan,” Geoff says and Ryan says, “Hi. Sorry about that bike. It didn’t explode when it was supposed to.”

“Nah, it exploded fine, Ryan, just fine. Helped out with the gasoline fire Gavin started. ‘Cause that’s what we needed. More fire. Of course.”

“Of course.”

Gavin stampedes up the stairs and Michael glances out the window. Jack, Ryan, and Geoff are walking together, the gents backlit by the bones of the cars, in those goddamn suits. Fuck if those suits don’t look intimidating, the skull mask and that electric blue shade flickering in the light. Geoff raises his gun and easily puts down a person creeping towards them. “They’re running,” Jack says as Ryan fits an assault rifle to his shoulder, pulls the trigger. “We’re heading to the transports. Over the hill behind the barn. Take back roads.”

And just like that, it’s over, piece of cake. Ray and Gavin appear, stepping over bodies and broken furniture, they’ve each got a bag strapped to them, and Michael follows them outside, towards the darkness around the barn. The thought of them failing and falling never crossed his mind, didn’t even occur to him, he knew they’d get out of this fine, same as he knows that’s fire and that’s the moon and that’s a goddamn police helicopter.

“Fuck me, let’s get outta here!”

The searchlight is sweeping the area, it’s like dodging a huge light cannon, and Michael’s anger is melting into happiness again, fucking shit, they did it; in the slide of the police light, he sees that Gavin’s jacket is a bit singed, his face covered in ash, Ray’s domino mask and t-shirt have blood splashed over them. 

He laughs as he runs around the side of the barn, spots the two cars and a bike, the taillights hemorrhaging red over the ground.

“Michael!”

He spins to find one last gang member coming at him with a knife, he fires once and that’s it, done and fucking _done_ , then the police searchlight finds him and suddenly, Ray’s next to him there in the shadows, sniper rifle aimed upwards.

“Fuck you,” Ray says and puts a bullet through the light, the sound of breaking glass loud under the chop of the rotors and Michael grabs him, shoves him towards the car.

One car pulls away as Michael jumps behind the wheel, Gavin rooting around in the backseat, “I found grenades! Lovely, lovely grenades.” He chucks one out, “Disorientation and confusion!” and Ray grips the dashboard, “Fucking _drive_.”

Michael drives.

They hit the road at a skid and there’s a series of explosions behind them, weird-sounding _booms_ , then the ping of bullets hitting asphalt, so Michael guns the engine.

In the other car, Jack starts laughing and Geoff blurts out, “Ryan, you crazy-ass bastard, where are you.”

Ryan’s voice is weirdly loud but broken up, “—motorcycle, headed—apartment, like he said—helicopter following—” 

Gavin groans. “I bloody _told_ you these comms suck knobs. The range is _horrible_ —“ and Geoff cuts in, “—all spread out, you think we can—lads, you fucking hear me?”

“Fucking great,” Michael says and Ray nudges him, shrugs, “We all got out. I don’t think anyone’s shot up. Except maybe you.” He’s grinning when Michael smacks him.

“Goddamn debris, courtesy of Ryan.”

“That mad bastard Ryan, I wasn’t expecting everything to blow up at once,” Gavin says, half-heartedly throwing a grenade. Michael watches it explode and a sedan swerves into the median.

The helicopter’s peeled off in a different pursuit, that bright red streak might be Ryan, and Michael might punch him when he sees him again. Ray’s scrunched in the seat, knees up and the window down with the smell of dust, and he balances his rifle, aims, fires. It’s a goddamn _sonic fucking boom_ in the car, Gavin shrieking, “ _WHAT?_ ” and the helicopter’s smoking, a trail of gray and white behind it. It starts losing altitude with a horrible grinding whine and Michael grins so hard his face hurts. Ray’s laughing, Gavin with him, still occasionally saying, “What? _What?!_ Are you _mental?_ ”

“ _Jesus_ , Ray, MVP sitting here, holy fucking Christ.”

“Geoff doesn’t pay me enough. Maybe he’ll give me a raise.”

Sirens and police cherries in the distance, taking the main roads, and once again, the Fake AH Crew has left the city a present, like a cat bringing dead animals to its loved ones. 

The city glitters from out here, same as the stars, a sparkling black diamond and they’ve lived another day, they’ve got another chance to smash what they can and take what they want. Streetlights pour over them in pulses, Michael slows a little bit, the lack of adrenaline leaving him cold as Ray rubs at the blood spatter on his sleeves. “Geoff’s gonna be pissed. Look at my suit.”

“Yeah, mine too,” Michael says, tugging at a thread unraveling around a jagged hole.

“You should see his,” Gavin pipes up, “one sleeve all slashed up. _And_ he kinda almost caught fire.”

“Kinda?” Ray asks at the same time Michael says, “I’m sure that was _your_ fault.”

Gavin sputters, he’s got a grenade in his hand and they’re in the middle of an escape, _in_ the fucking city now, “don’t you fucking throw that, _don’t you throw that_ , Gavin, _Gavin_ , I swear to God, Gavin, I will beat your ass.”

“You just wish you could beat this ass.”

“ _What_.”

“What?”

Ray laughs, then says, “Shit, is that them?” He points two blocks to the right and Michael slows at an intersection to get a look. 

“I see you!” Geoff says on the comm, the words bursting into existence, and the other car creeps up even with them as the light turns red. Then there’s a flash of metal on Michael’s side, a hand brushing his shoulder through the open window, and he angrily punches at it, yelling, “OH MY FUCKING _GOD_ ,” the skull mask next to him grinning as Ryan laughs and laughs.

“Last one to the apartment is something bad, I haven’t decided what, but it’s really bad and possibly very vulgar.”

He shoots through the red light and the other car takes off and Gavin shouts, “Oh my God, _go!_ ”

There isn’t a clear winner, due to various mishaps and one unforgettable fire hydrant. 

(At the apartment, Geoff takes one look at them all and screams in frustration, “OUR FUCKING SUITS ARE FUCKING RUINED, JESUS FUCK, I AM SO FUCKING PISSED RIGHT NOW, YOU HAVE NO IDEA, GOD _DAMMIT_.” Then he pouts for two hours, Ryan and Jack feeding him drinks as they watch TV in the dark. 

And it’s not because Michael’s brave or stupid, necessarily, he just wants to see what’ll happen, so he goes to each of the guys as they come down from the bullet-riddled craziness, after they’ve showered and changed clothes, and he collects their suits, shirts and all, and hangs them up. Then as the sun edges up over the horizon, he visits Geoff, who’s sprawled on the couch, staring at the TV. Jack sees him first, raises an eyebrow, and Michael makes a shushing motion; behind him, Gavin’s holding onto giggles as he and Ray sneak around to get a better view. Ryan grins immediately and that’s what makes Geoff sit up.

“Here, Geoff, can you drop off this fucking dry cleaning,” Michael says, handing him the hangers. “I’d do it, but I gotta restock my sticky bombs.”

“You sonuvabitch, Michael, you asshole _bastard_ , fuck you and your dry cleaning,” Geoff says, fighting to look furious, and Michael shrugs, nonchalant, “If that’s how you feel about it, Geoff, but I’d hate for us to show up at the next fucking heist looking like a bunch of goddamn zombies. I mean, if you don’t want us to look _professional_ …”

It’s a close call, but no one gets shot. Much. Well, that wall looks better with bullet holes. It’s _art_.)

-

All Gavin says is, “We should get a tank.”

“On it,” Ray says, grinning as he hops off the couch and Jack holds up a hand, as if he could stop them from something, “For what.”

“For whatever!”

Geoff starts laughing, a slow deep chuckle in his throat. “Yeah, yeah, a _tank_. That’ll show ‘em.”

“Show who what,” Ryan says, wandering in from the kitchen. 

“Anybody anything.”

Sighing, Jack searches about for the TV remote. “They want to get a tank.”

“For what.”

“For whatever!” Gavin reiterates, insistent, and Ray reappears with his hood pulled up. 

“Do I look sneaky enough?”

“Sneaky as dicks,” Geoff confirms.

“Excellent. Gavin, you coming?”

Gavin jumps up, right into Michael’s path, who pushes him back down on the couch. “What’s happening and why.”

“We wanna get a tank,” Geoff says, eyes burning mischief, because he might be the boss, he might be in charge, but he’s arguably one of the worst out of all of them (they’ve debated it, had fights about it, spilled beer over it). 

With that big endless grin, Gavin thumps his chest. “It was my idea.”

“A fucking _amazing_ one, Gavin,” Geoff says, nodding, and Michael just watches them for a second.

“You’re going with us, we’re all going,” Ray declares, “and you’re driving.”

“I’d be driving near or onto the military base. Why would I do that.”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you do that. Let’s get a tank!”

Michael pauses. “I do know a guy.”

Gavin, Geoff, and Ray cheer, and Ryan laughs.

“Wouldn’t mind driving a tank to the bank. Try using the ATM,” Ryan says, “ _or_ we could go on a taco run. Hell, I bet there wouldn’t be any traffic. Could clear that right up.”

“Ryan the traffic reporter guy.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Alright, so if we do this—“

Gavin, Geoff, and Ray peer at Jack eagerly, Michael and Ryan grinning, and this is the losing battle, no one can hold out against these guys, none of them, they have the absolute _worst_ (“or best,” Ryan’s been known to say, “this idea is the best of the best, it’ll go wrong in about five seconds, but it’ll be a _fun_ five seconds”) goddamn ideas.

“If we go get a tank—“

Cheers on cue, “shut up, let the man fucking speak,” Michael says with a huff, “the faster he finishes, the faster we can—“

“Shut up then!”

This is a fucking terrible idea after all. “We should at least—“

“If you say ‘case the joint,’ I will punch you,” Ryan threatens, one eye closed in disbelief.

“CASE THE JOINT,” Geoff yells, “sounds great, let’s do it! Field trip, bitches!”

Ryan puts his head in his hands, but he’s smiling.

It should be madness, but they’re all pretty much ready to go, they kind of stand around for a bit as Michael shrugs on his leather jacket. 

“Now?” Ray asks.

“Well, alright, everyone get the fuck outta my apartment. And then meet me downstairs, I have to get the car. But seriously, get the absolute fuck out.”

Michael grabs the wrong set of keys, “No Roosevelt, boys, so we’re in the Dubsta, get all your shit in and shut the fuck up.” Somehow, it takes manuvering, it shouldn’t, they’re all grown men, but Gavin can’t decide where he wants to sit and Ray already called shotgun and eventually, Geoff yells, “I _will_ leave you here!”

“So you’re gonna drive? And get this tank by yourself? Wow, Geoff, you’re so fucking generous, a goddamn god among men,” Jack says, that sarcasm he keeps for the right occasions.

Scowling, Geoff hops in the back and Ryan joins him, and finally, they’re off. As they pick up speed, Michael rolls the windows down and he hears Ryan shout, “Not that I don’t want one, but _where_ the _fuck_ are we supposed to keep a _tank?_ ”

And Geoff shouts back, “Don’t we still have that barn? It didn’t burn down, did it?”

Gavin laughs, grabs Jack around the neck, “Cheer up, Jack, maybe we can hide the tank in your beard.”

“Did anyone think to bring guns?” Jack asks, glaring.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Michael says, “we are so fucked.” 

Laughing, Ray sticks his hand out the window and flips off the city. The sunshine air fills the car and it smells like Los Santos, like salt and tar and exhaust, like gasoline and money.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of summary from "Their Law" by The Prodigy. They ~~attempt to~~ sing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler. This is for and because of thingswhatareawesome. I'm sorry about typos, I'll fix as I re-re-re-re-edit them. Tucking typos. Random note: google and wikipedia inform me that "knob" is the correct spelling versus "nob." Either way, I found that fascinating.


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